


Remember Who Is Watching

by TheStarkster



Series: My Really, Really Random Collection Of One-Shots [2]
Category: Percy Jackson and the Olympians & Related Fandoms - All Media Types, Percy Jackson and the Olympians - Rick Riordan, The Heroes of Olympus - Rick Riordan
Genre: Angst, Angst with a Happy Ending, Depression, F/M, Non-Canonical Character Death, Somewhat, Suicidal Thoughts, Suicide Attempt
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-03-02
Updated: 2021-03-02
Packaged: 2021-03-13 16:20:42
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,824
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29778825
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/TheStarkster/pseuds/TheStarkster
Summary: Percy Jackson carries a special photograph in his pocket.
Relationships: Annabeth Chase/Percy Jackson, Estelle Blofis & Percy Jackson, Paul Blofis/Sally Jackson, Percy Jackson & Sally Jackson
Series: My Really, Really Random Collection Of One-Shots [2]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/2190402
Kudos: 34





	Remember Who Is Watching

**Author's Note:**

> Angsty one-shot, because why not?  
> Trigger Warning: Depression and suicidal thoughts. Please don't read if you have any of these triggers.

Sally Jackson named her son after the Greek son of Zeus, Perseus, in the hope that some of the luck associated with that name would rub off on her baby boy, and perhaps he wouldn't die a horrible death at a young age.

She got her wish, Percy Jackson did _not_ die a horrible death.

No, he just lived a horrible life.

He held her in his arms, his best friend, his childhood crush, his one true love, as the life went out of her grey eyes and her guts spilled from where the monster had slashed her stomach. No amount of screaming and crying and sobbing would bring her back, even though he woke up every day with her name on his lips, still searching for her after her body had long been turned into ash. _Annabeth._

Every time he closed his eyes, he could see the dark blood-red depths of Tartarus, and every time, he woke up with a gasp, clawing at the sheets, unable to share his pain with anyone, because no one, no one knew what it was like to go through the depths of the pit of evil except Nico and Annabeth, and he couldn't do that to Nico, couldn't remind him of the trauma when he had just begun to smile and laugh because of Will.

He was nineteen now, but somehow he couldn't bear to pursue his dream of going to college in New Rome. Because that was a dream he saw with Annabeth, shared with her, which belonged to her as much as it belonged to him, and he couldn't live it without having her at his side. He couldn't go to Camp Half-Blood either, too soaked in the memories of them together.

So he lived here, in Manhattan, with his mom and Paul, and Estelle.

They were the only bright light in his life. They made him laugh on his darkest days, always trying to make him feel better. And on the days when his mom surprised him with blue cookies, or when he and Paul sat on the couch and watched the match like dad and son, or when Estelle insisted on him picking her up and pretending to make her fly like an airplane while she shrieked with laughter, he could feel himself healing, just a little.

It wasn't beautiful, it wasn't perfect, but it was okay. 

But life could never be allowed to be okay, could it?

 _I am very sorry,_ the doctors said. _There was nothing we could do._

Dead on arrival. That was what they said. Dead on arrival. A drunk man once again took whatever he had left. The truck crashed right into the Prius, killing mom and Paul instantly. Estelle was still alive, but barely, almost not at all.

His friends visited, some of them staying for days on an end. Jason and Piper tried their best to be at his side. Even Hazel, Frank and Reyna came all the way from Camp Jupiter, though they had to leave the next day, afraid to leave the Camp without both Praetors.

"There's always a home for you in New Rome." Frank reminded him.

"We would love to have you there." Hazel said.

"We're taking care of the hospital bills." Reyna said softly. "Percy, if you ever want a fresh start, just send us a message."

Words. Just meaningless, worthless, hollow, empty words. What did he care for a home? His home had already been turned to dust.

Leo came and stayed. So did Nico and Will. Even Clarisse dropped in for a visit. 

"You better get yourself together, punk." Her words were harsh, but the concern was clear on her face. "Who am I gonna wipe the floor with and tell everyone if you keep moping here all day?"

More words.

They all left, slowly. No one could stay for months. They all had their own lives, their own hopes, their own dreams. Thalia dropped on him one day suddenly, and they just sat there in silence, mourning the people they had lost, thinking about how nothing would be the same again.

Estelle survived, of course she did, he'd probably driven all the gods mad with his constant prayers. But the house was still hollow, an empty reminder of memories. Sometimes, if he closed his eyes, he could see them again, the ghosts of his memories, his mom and Paul working together in the kitchen, laughter chiming through the emptiness. And then he'd open his eyes, and it would all be silent again.

Grief was like cancer, he decided. It eats away at you slowly, working like poison through your veins. Each day felt as though it were being lived through a haze. He hadn't cried, he realized. There had been no tears for his parents, just a silent, all-encompassing numbness.

He wanted to feel, to feel _something, anything,_ to remind him of what it was to be human, to care for someone, to even hate, to have emotion. But it was as though he were watching life through a screen. The only time he felt a little alive was when Estelle clutched his neck and refused to leave, both of them falling asleep in the armchair in the living room.

Contrary to what people though, Percy Jackson did remember some part of what he learnt in school. As he set the bottle of chloral in front of him, he was reminded of that mystery book that they had to read for school; what was it called again? The Seven Dials Mystery. The man died in his sleep, peacefully, unknowingly, from a chloral overdose.

_Let's see how much to takes to down you, Perseus._

A quick, peaceful, painless death. He couldn't have asked for more. Estelle would be okay. Jason, Piper, Frank, Hazel, the four of them would take care of her. He'd already timed an e-mail to be sent to his friends. Piper, Leo, and Jason all three had access to computers and online accounts of their own. They would be here next morning before she woke up. Leo could make sure she was always laughing. Nico and Reyna wouldn't let anyone harm a hair on her head. She would be safe if Will was looking after her. He wasn't needed.

He poured it into a glass. It was supposed to be bitter to taste, he remembered, which was why most people masked the taste with something else.

It couldn't be as bitter as the poison of his mind.

He lifted it to his lips. Finally. _The end, the end, the-_

"Percy, what are you doing?"

The glass froze halfway to his lips. He slowly turned on the kitchen stool to look at the little girl in behind of him. "It's a drink," he tried to think through the fog in his mind. "A- a kind of juice."

"Can I have some too?"

"No!" Estelle flinched at the sudden loudness. "No, it's an adult drink. You can't have it."

" _You're_ having it."

"I'm nineteen."

"I'm three."

"You're too young."

"I can do anything you can." The blue eyes that she had inherited from their mother glared at him defiantly.

"What are you doing up?" He tried to change the subject.

"I found this photograph in mommy's drawer." She toddled up to him and handed him a small photograph.

"What were you doing searching mom's drawer?" Percy raised his eyebrow as he leaned down to take the photo.

Estelle said nothing as she clung to his leg. Percy suddenly felt deeply guilty. He had been so focused on his own grief that he failed to understand that she must be feeling the same pain, and at a very young age at that.

The photograph made him feel as though someone was squeezing his chest. It showed him standing in front of the sea at Montauk, laughing and holding baby Estelle in his arms as she wiggled around, the waves forming a deep blue background behind him. It had been clicked just over two years ago, just when he'd come home from the war with Gaia. Probably the last happy winter of his life.

He looked down to comment on it, when to his utter horror, he saw Estelle sniffing the glass of chloral, as though trying to guess its taste. He didn't even realize how fast he had moved until he heard the crash of glass shattering against the floor. Estelle looked at him, scared, slowly backing away. "I was just doing what you did."

He felt as though his breath was stuck in his throat. _I was just doing what you did._ Memories flashed through him: Paul complaining laughingly that Estelle copied everything that Percy did despite Paul spending more time with her. Estelle keeping a pen in her tiny pockets like Riptide lived in his. Estelle keeping folded pieces of paper in her shirt pockets like he kept grocery lists because he kept forgetting what to get and Sally wanted him to try and live a normal life again, so she kept trying to get him to leave the house no matter how many times he messed up.

_Estelle probably drinking chloral just because he did._

He leapt down from the stool and hugged her tightly. "Don't ever, ever do that." He whispered as he rocked her gently. "Don't."

"O-Okay?"

He let her go and stood up. He grabbed the bottle on the counter. "Let's pour it into the sink."

Her eyes widened. "Are you sure?"

"Yes." His voice was hoarse. "Let's get rid of it. All of it."

Together, they poured it into the sink, watching it swirl into the drain, the pungent odor the only reminder of its existence. He deleted the e-mails he had timed to be sent, grabbed a drachma and made a call to Camp Jupiter, startling Reyna, who seemed to have fallen asleep over paperwork in the Principia. The next morning, he packed their stuff into a small bag, and they caught the first train westwards to California.

****************************************

It had been two years since that incident.

He now lived in New Rome, juggling college with his job at Bombilo's bakery, making his mother's blue cookies and other blue goodies, which were by now pretty famous. He was better known as 'the boy who makes blue cookies' rather than 'Perseus Jackson, one of the Seven'. He didn't mind. He was done with that life, and the recipe was his mother's. It was his way of keeping her memory alive.

Some days were good, some days were neutral, others were outright terrible. But Percy Jackson still kept the photograph in his pocket. He kept it as a memory, as a sign of hope, as a reminder. Every time he wanted to give up, all he took out the photograph, remembering one dark night in an unlit kitchen. Every time he wanted to quit, he'd turn around, and he would remember who was watching.

**Author's Note:**

> Somehow, I'm not as satisfied with this as I was with Nothing Be Interposer Twixt Us Twain. And this sounded so much better in my head. I'll probably be writing another, titled 'What Happened in Albania' on, well, what happened in Albania. Duh. It's the Budapest of the Riordanverse fandom. Honestly, every time I read BOO, my mind goes: TELL ME WHAT HAPPENED IN ALBANIA! Since Rick doesn't seem to be writing that one any time soon, I guess fanfiction is the next best thing.  
> Adios!  
> TheStarkster


End file.
